Miss WARLEY to the same.
From Mr. Jenkings's.
Now, my dearest Lady, am I again perplex'd, doubting, and embarrass'd:—yet Lord Darcey is gone,—gone this very morning,—about an hour since.
Well, I did not think it would evermore be in his power to distress me;—but I have been distress'd,—greatly distress'd!—I begin to think Lord Darcey sincere,—that he has always been sincere—He talks of nextThursday, as a day to unravel great mysteries:—but I shall be far enough by that time; sail'd, perhaps.—Likely, he said, I might know before Thursday.—I wish any body could, tell me:—I fancy Sir James and Lady Powis are in the secret.
Mr. Jenkings is gone with his Lordship to Mr. Stapleton's,—about ten miles this side London, on business of importance:—to-morrow he returns; then I shall acquaint him with my leaving this place.—Your Ladyship knows the motive why I have hitherto kept the day of my setting out a secret from every person,—even from Sir James and Lady Powis.
Yesterday, the day preceding the departure of Lord Darcey, I went up to the Abbey, determin'd to exert my spirits and appear chearful, cost what it would to a poor disappointed heavy heart.—Yes, it was disappointed:—but till then I never rightly understood its situation;—or perhaps would not understand it;—else I have not examin'd it so closely as I ought, of late;—Not an unusual thing neither: we often stop to enquire, what fine featthat?—whose magnificent equipagethis?—long to see and converse with persons so surrounded with splendor;—but if one happen to pass a poor dark cottage, and see the owner leaning on a crutch at the door, we are apt to go by, without making any enquiry, or betraying a wish to be acquainted with its misery.—
This was my situation, when I directed my steps to the Abbey.—I saw not Lord Darcey in an hour after I came into the house;—when he join'd us, he was dress'd for the day, and in one hand his own hat, in the other mine, with my cloak, which he had pick'd up in the Vestibule:—he was dreadfully pale;—complain'd of a pain in his head, which he is very subject to;—said he wanted a walk;—and ask'd, if I would give him the honour of my company.—I had not the heart to refuse, when I saw how ill he look'd;—though for some days past, I have avoided being alone with him as much as possible.
We met Lady Powis returning from a visit to her poultry-yard.—Where are my two runabouts goingnow?she said.—Only for a little walk, madam, reply'd Lord Darcey.
You are a sauce-box, said she, shaking him by the hand;—but don't go, my Lord,too farwith Miss Warley, nodding and smiling on him at the same time.—She gave me a sweet affectionate kiss, as I pass'd her; and cried out, You are a couple of pretty strollers, are you not!—But away together; only I charge you, my Lord, calling after him, remember you are not to gotoo farwith my dear girl.
We directed our steps towards the walk that leads to the Hermitage, neither of us seeming in harmony of spirits.—His Lordship still complaining of his head, I propos'd going back before we had gone ten paces from the house.
Would Miss Warley then prevent me, said he, from the last satisfaction! might ever enjoy?—You don't know, madam, how long—it is impossible to say how long—if ever I should be so happy again—I look forward to Wednesday with impatience;—if that should be propitious,—Thursdaywill unravelmysteries; it will clear updoubts;—it will perhaps bring on an event which you, my dearest life, may in time reflect on with pleasure;—you, my dearest life!—pardon the liberty,—by heaven! I am sincere!
I was going to withdraw my hand from his: I can be less reserv'd when he is less free.
Don't take your hand from me;—I will call you miss Warley;—I see my freedom is depleasing;—but don't take your hand away; for I was still endeavouring to get it away from him.
Yes, my angel, I will call youMiss Warley.
Talk not at this rate, my Lord: it is a kind of conversation I do not, nor wish to understand.
I see, madam, I am to be unhappy;—I know you have great reason to condemn me:—my whole behaviour, since I first saw you, has been one riddle.
Pray, my Lord, forbear this subject.
No! if I never see you more, Miss Warley,—this is my wish that you think the worst of me that appearances admit;—think I have basely wish'd to distress you.
Distress me, my Lord?
Think so, I beseech you, if I never return.—What would the misfortune be of falling low, even to the most abject in your opinion, compared with endangering the happiness of her whole peace is my ardent pursuit?—If I fail, I only can tell the cause:—you shall never be acquainted with it;—for should you regard me even with pity,—cool pity,—it would be taking the dagger from my own breast, and planting it in yours.
Ah! my Lady, could I help understanding him?—could I help being moved?—I was moved;—my eyes I believe betrayed it.
If I return, continued he, it is you only can pronounce me happy.—If you see me not again, think I am tossed on the waves of adverse fortune:—but oh think I again intreatyou,—think me guilty. Perhaps I may outlive—no, that will never do;—you will be happy long before that hour;—it would be selfish to hope the contrary. IwishMr. Powis was come home;—I wish—All my wishes tend to one great end.—Good God, what a situation am I in!—That the Dead could hear my petitions!—that he could absolve me!—What signifies, whether one sue to remains crumbled in the dust, or to the ear which can refuse to hear the voice of reason?
I thought I should have sunk to see the agony he was work'd up to.—I believe I look'd very pale;—I felt the blood thrill through my veins, and of a sudden stagnate:—a dreadful sickness follow'd;—I desir'd to sit;—he look'd on every side, quite terrified;—cry'd, Where will you sit, my dearest life?—what shall I do?—For heaven's sake speak,—speak but one word;—speak to tell me, I have not been your murderer.
I attempted to open my mouth, but in vain; I pointed to the ground, making an effort to sit down:—he caught me in his arms, and bore me to a bench not far off;—there left me, to fetch some water at a brook near, but came back before he had gone ten steps.—I held out my hand to his hat, which lay on the ground, then look'd to the water.—Thank God!—thank God! he said, and went full speed, to dip up some;—he knelt down, trembling, before me;—his teeth chatter'd in his head whilst he offer'd the water.
I found myself beginning to recover the moment it came to my lips.—He fix'd his eyes on me, as if he never meant to take them off, holding both my hands between his, the tears running down his face, without the contraction of one feature.—If sorrow could be express'd in stone, he then appear'd the very statue which was to represent it.
I attempted to speak.
Don't speak yet, he cried;—don't make yourself ill again: thank heaven, you are better!—This is some sudden chill; why have you ventur'd out without clogs?
How delicate,—how seasonable, this hint! Without it could I have met his eye, after the weakness I had betrayed?—We had now no more interesting subjects; I believe he thought I hadenoughof them.
It was near two when we reach'd the Abbey. Sir James and Mr. Morgan were just return'd from a ride;—Lady Powis met us on the Green, where she said she had been walking some time, in expectation of her strollers,—She examin'd my countenance very attentively, and then ask'd Lord Darcey, if he had remember'd her injunctions?
What reason, my Lady, have you to suspect the contrary? he returned—Well, well, said she, I shall find you out some day or other;—but her Ladyship seem'd quite satisfied, when I assured her I had been no farther than the Beach-walk.
Cards were propos'd soon after dinner: the same party as usual.—Mr. Morgan is never ask'd to make one;—he says he would as soon see the devil as a card-table.—We kept close at it 'till supper.—I could not help observing his Lordship blunder'd a little;—playing a diamond for a spade,—and a heart for a club,—I took my leave at eleven, and he attended me home.
Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings were gone to bed,—Edmund was reading in the parlour; he insisted on our having a negus which going out to order, was follow'd by Lord Darcey:—I heard them whisper in the passage, but could distinguish the words,if she is ill, remember, if she is ill—and then Edmund answer'd, You may depend on it, my Lord,—as I have a soul to be saved:—does your Lordship suppose I would be so negligent?
I guess'd at this charge;—it was to write, if I should be ill, as I have since found by Edmund,—who return'd capering into the room, rubbing his hands, and smiling with such significance as if he would have said, Every thing is as it should be.
When his Lordship had wish'd us a good night, he said to me,—To-morrow, Miss Warley!—but I will say nothing ofto-morrow;—I shall see you in the morning. His eyes glisten'd, and he left the room hastily.—Whilst Edmund attended him out, I went to my chamber that I might avoid a subject of which I saw his honest heart was full.
On my table lay the Roman History; I could not help giving a peep where I had left off, being a very interesting part:—from one thing I was led to another, 'till the clock struck three; which alarm made me quit my book.
Whilst undressing, I had leisure to recollect the incidents of the pass'd day; sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain, would arise, from this examination; yet the latter was most predominant.
When I consider'd Lord Darcey's tender regard for my future, as well as present peace,—how could I reflect on him without gratitude?—When I consider'd his perplexities, I thought thus:—they arise from some entanglement, in which his heart is not engag'd.—Had he confided in me, I should not have weaken'd his resolutions;—I would no more wish him to be guilty of a breach of honour, than surrender myself to infamy.—I would have endeavour'd to persuade himsheis amiable, virtuous, and engaging.—If I had been successful, I would havefrown'dwhen hesmil'd;—I would have beengaywhen he seem'doppress'd—I would have beenreserv'd, peevish, supercilicus;—in short, I would have counterfeited the very reverse of what was likely to draw him from a former attachment.
To live without him must be my fate; since that is almost inevitable, I would have strove to have secur'd his happiness, whilst mine had remain'd to chance.—These reflections kept me awake 'till six; when I fell into a profound sleep, which lasted 'till ten; at which time I was awaken'd by Mrs. Jenkings to tell me Lord Darcey was below; with an apology, that she had made breakfast, as her husband was preparing, in great haste, to attend his Lordship.
This was a hint he was not to stay long; so I put on my cloaths with expedition; and going down, took with me my whole stock of resolution; but I carried it no farther than the bottom of the stairs;—there it flew from me;—never have I seen it since:—that it rested not in the breast of Lord Darcey, was visible;—rather it seem'd as if his and mine had taken a flight together.
I stood with the lock of the door in my hand more than a minute, in hopes my inward flutterings would abate.—His Lordship heard my footstep, and flew to open it;—I gave him my hand, without knowing what I did;—joy sparkled in his eyes and he prest it to his breast with a fervour that cover'd me with confusion.
He saw what he had done,—He dropp'd it respectfully, and inquiring tenderly for my health, ask'd if I would honour him with my commands before he sat out for Town?—What a fool was I!—Lord bless me!—can I ever forget my folly? What do you think, my Lady! I did not speak;—no! I could not answer;—I wassilent;—I wassilent, when I would have given the world for one word.—When I did speak, it was not to Lord Darcey, but, still all fool, turn'd and said to Mr. Jenkings, who was looking over a parchment, How do you find yourself, Sir? Will not the journey you are going to take on horseback be too fatiguing? No, no, my good Lady; it is an exercise I have all my life been us'd to: to-morrow you will see me return the better for it.
Mrs. Jenkings here enter'd, follow'd by a servant with the breakfast, which was plac'd before me, every one else having breakfasted.—She desir'd I would give myself the trouble of making tea, having some little matters to do without.—This task would have been a harder penance than a fast of three days;—but I must have submitted, had not my good genius Edmund appear'd at this moment; and placing himself by me, desir'd to have the honour of making my breakfast.
I carried the cup with difficulty to my mouth. My embarrassment was perceiv'd by his Lordship; he rose from his seat, and walk'd up and down.—How did his manly form struggle to conceal the disorder of his mind!—Every movement, every look, every word, discover'd Honour in her most graceful, most ornamental garb:whencould it appear to such advantage, surrounded with a cloud of difficulties, yet shining out and towering above them all?
He laid his cold hand on mine;—with precipitation left the room;—and was in a moment again at my elbow.—Leaning over the back of my chair, he whisper'd, For heaven's sake, miss Warley, be the instrument of my fortitude; whilst I see you I cannot—there stopt and turn'd from me.—I saw he wish'd me to go first,—as much in compassion to myself as him. When his back was turn'd, I should have slid out of the room;—but Mr. Jenkings starting up, and looking at his watch, exclaim'd,Odso, my Lord! it is past eleven; we shall be in the dark. This call'd him from his reverie; and he sprang to the door, just as I had reached it.—Sweet, generous creature! said he, stopping me; and you will gothen?—Farewell, my Lord, replied I.—My dear, good friend, to Mr. Jenkings, take care of your health.—God bless you both I—My voice faulter'd.
Excellent Miss Warley! a thousand thanks for your kind condescension, said the good old man.—Yet one moment, oh God! yet one moment, said his Lordship; and he caught both my hands.
Come, my Lord, return'd Mr. Jenkings; and never did I see him look so grave, something of disappointment in his countenance;—come, my Lord, the day is wasting apace. Excuse this liberty:—your Lordship has beenlongdetermin'd,—havelongknown of leaving this country.—My dearest young Lady, you will be expected at the Abbey.—I shall, indeed, replied I;—so God bless you, Sir!—God bless you, my Lord! and, withdrawing my hands, hasten'd immediately to my chamber.
I heard their voices in the court-yard:—if I had look'd out at the window, it might not have been unnatural,—I own my inclinations led to it.—Inclination should never take place of prudence;—by following one, we are often plung'd into difficulties;—by the other we are sure to be conducted safely:—instead, then, of indulging my curiosity to see how he look'd—how he spoke at taking leave of this dwelling;—whether his eyes were directed to the windows, or the road;—if he rid slow or fast;—how often he turn'd to gaze, before he was out of sight:—instead of this, I went to Mrs. Jenkings's apartment, and remain'd there 'till I heard they were gone, then return'd to my own; since which I have wrote down to this period. Perhaps I should have ran on farther, if a summons from Lady Powis did not call me off. I hope now to appear before her with tolerable composure.—I am to go in the coach alone.—Well, it will seem strange!—I shall think of mylatecompanion;—but time reconciles every thing.—Thiswas my hope, when I lost my best friend, the lov'd instructress of my infant years.—Time, all healingTime!tothatI fear I must look forward, as a lenitive against many evils.
Two days!—only two days!—and then, adieu, my dear friends at the Abbey;—adieu, my good Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings!—and youtoo, my friendly-hearted Edmund, adieu!
Welcome,—doubly welcome, every moment which brings me nearer to that when I shall kiss the hands of my honour'd Lady;—when I shall be able to tell you, in person, ten thousand things too much for my pen;—when you will kindly say, Tell me all, my Fanny, tell me every secret of your heart.—Happy sounds!—pleasing sounds! these will be to your grateful and affectionate
F. WARLEY.
Miss WARLEY to the same.
From Mr. Jenkings's.
Now, my dear Lady, am I ready for my departure:—Sir James and Lady Powis reconciled to my leaving them;—yet how can I call it reconciled, when I tear myself from their arms as they weep over me?—Heavens! how tenderly they love me!—Their distress, when I told them the day was absolutely fix'd; when I told them the necessity of my going,theirdistress nothing could equal but myown.—I thought my heart would have sunk within me!—Surely, my Lady, my affection for them is not a common affection;—it issuchas I hear your dear self;—it issuchas I felt for my revered Mrs. Whitmore.—I cannot dwell on this subject—indeed I cannot.
I almost wish I had not kept the day so long a secret.—But suppose I had not,—would their concern have been lessen'd?
I would give the world, if Mr. Jenkings was come home:—his wife is like a frantic woman; and declares, if I persist in going, I shall break the heart of her and her husband.—Why do they love me so well?—It cannot be from any deserts of mine:—I have done no more than common gratitude demands;—the affection I shew them is only the result of their own kindness.—Benevolent hearts never place any thing to their own account:—they look on returns as presents, not as just debts:—so, whether giving or receiving, the glory must be their's.
I fancy Mr. Smith will not be here 'till to morrow, his Lady having wrote me, he intended spending the evening with an acquaintance of his about six miles from the Abbey.
How I dread the hour of parting!—Poor Mr. Watson!—I fear I shall never seehimmore.—Mr. Morgantoo!but he is likely to live many years.—There is something in this strange man excessively engaging.—If people have roughness, better to appear in the voice, in the air and dress, than in the heart: a want of softnessthere, I never can dispense with.—What is a graceful form, what are numberless accomplishments, without humanity? I love, I revere, the honest, plain, well-meaning Mr. Morgan.
Hark! I hear the trampling of horses.—Mr. Jenkings is certainly return'd.—I hasten down to be the first who shall inform him of my departure.
How am I mortified to see Aaron return without his master!—Whilst Mrs. Jenkings was busied in enquiries after the health of her good man, I was all impatience for the contents of a letter she held in her hand, unopen'd: having broke the seal, and run her eye hastily over it, she gave it me.—I think my recollection will serve to send it verbatim to your Ladyship.
Mr. JENKINGS to Mrs. JENKINGS.
"My Dear,
I dispatch Aaron to acquaint you it is impossible for me to be home till Wednesday. Mr. Stapleton is gone to London: I am obliged to attend Lord Darcey thither. I love his Lordshipmoreandmore.—He has convinc'd meourconjectures were not without foundation.—Heaven grant it may end toourwishes!—There are, he thinks, difficulties to be overcome. Let him think it:—his happiness will be more exquisite when he is undeceiv'd.—Distribute my dutiful respects to Sir James, Lady Powis, and Miss Warley; next to yourself and our dear Edmund, they are nearest the heart of your truly affectionate husband
JENKINGS."
I will make no comments on this letter; it cannot concernme,—What can I do about seeing Mr. Jenkings before I go?—
Lord bless me! a chaise and four just stopp'd; Mr. Smith in it.—Heavens! how my heart throbs!—I did not expect him 'till to-morrow: I must run to receive him.—How shall I go up to the Abbey!—how support the last embrace of Sir James and Lady Powis!
Ten at Night, just come from the Abbey.
Torn in pieces!—my poor heart torn in pieces!—I shall never see them more;—never again be strain'd to their parental bosoms.—Forgive me, my dearest Lady, I do not grieve that I am coming toyou; I grieve only that I go fromthem.—Oh God! why must my soul be divided?
Another struggle too with poor Mrs. Jenkings!—She has been on her knees:—yes, thus lowly has she condescended to turn me from my purpose, and suffer Mr. Smith to go back without me,—I blush to think what pain, what trouble I occasion.—She talks of someimportant eventat hand. She says if I go, it will, end in the destruction of us all.—What can she mean by animportant event?—Perhaps Lord Darcey—but no matter; nothing, my dear Lady, shall with-hold me from you.—The good woman is now more calm. I have assured her it is uncertain how long we may be in London: it is only that has calm'd her.—She says, she iscertainI shall return;—she iscertain, when Mr. Powis and his Lady arrives,I mustreturn.—Next Thursday they are expected:—already are they arrived at Falmouth:—but, notwithstanding what I have told Mrs. Jenkings, to soften her pains at parting, I shall by Thursday be on my voyage;—for Mr. Smith tells me the Packet will sail immediately.—Perhaps I may be the messenger of my own letters:—but I am determin'd to write on 'till I see you;—that when I look them over, my memory may receive some assistance.—Good night, my dearest Lady; Mrs. Jenkings and Mr. Smith expects me.
F. Warley.
Lord DARCEY to Sir JAMES POWIS.
London.
Even whilst I write, I see before me the image of my expiring father;—I hear the words that issued from his death-like lips;—my soul feels the weight of his injunctions;—againin my imagination I seal the sacred promise on his livid hand;—and my heart bows before Sir James with all that duty which is indispensable from a child to a parent.
Happiness is within my reach, yet withoutyoursanction Iwillnot,darenot, bid it welcome;—Iwillnot hold out my hand to receiveit.—Yes, Sir, I love Miss Warley; I can no longer disguise my sentiments.—On the terrace I should not have disguis'd them, if your warmth had not made me tremble for the consequence.—You remember my argumentsthen; suffer me now to reurgethem.
I allow it would be convenient to have my fortune augmented by alliance; but then it is notabsolutelynecessary I should make the purchase with my felicity.—A thousand chances may put me in possession of riches;—one event only can put me in possession of content.—Withoutit, what is a fine equipage?—what a splendid retinue?—what a table spread with variety of dishes?
Judge for me, Sir James;youwhoknow, wholoveMiss Warley, judge for me.—Is it possible for a man of my turn to see her, to talk with her, to know her thousandvirtues, and not wish to be united to them?—It is to your candour I appeal.—SayIamto be happy,sayit only in one line, I come immediately to the Abbey, full of reverence, of esteem, of gratitude.
Think, dear Sir James, of Lady Powis;—think of the satisfaction you hourly enjoy with that charming woman; then will you complete the felicity of
DARCEY.
Sir JAMES POWIS to Lord DARCEY.
Barford Abbey.
I am not much surpris'd at the contents of your Lordship's letter, it iswhatLady Powis and I have long conjectur'd; yet I must tell, you, my Lord, notwithstanding Miss Warley's great merit, I should have been much better pleas'd to have found myself mistaken.
I claim no right to controul your inclinations: the strict observance you pay your father's last request, tempts me to give my opinion very opposite to what I should otherwise have done.—Duty like yours ought to be rewarded.—If you will content yourself with an incumber'd estate rather than a clear one, why—why—why—faith you shall not have my approbation 'till you come to the Abbey. Should you see the little bewitching Gipsy before I talk with you, who knows but you may be wise enough to make a larger jointure than you can afford?
I am glad your Lordship push'd the matter no farther on the terrace: I did not then know how well I lov'd our dear girl.—My wife issopleas'd,—sohappy,—sooverjoy'd,—at what she calls your noble disinterested regard for her Fanny, that one would think she had quite forgot the value ofmoney.—I expect my son to-morrow.—Let me have the happiness of embracing you at the same time;—you are both my children, &c. &c.:
J. Powis.
Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Abbey.
Full of joy! full of surprize! I dispatch a line by Robert.—Fly, Molesworth, to Mr. Smith's, inBloomsbury-Square:—tell my dearest, dear Miss Warley, but tell her of it by degrees, that Mr. Powis is herfather!—Yes! herfather, George;—and the most desirable woman on earth, her mother!—Don't tell her of it neither; you will kill her with surprise.—Confounded luck! that I did not know she was in London.
I shall be with you in less than two hours, after Robert:—I send him on, with orders to ride every horse to death, lest he should be set out for Dover.
Jenkings is now on the road, but he travels too slow for my wishes.—If she is gone, prepare swift horses for me to follow:—I am kept by force to refresh myself.—What refreshment can I want!—Fly, I say, to Miss Powis, now no longer Miss Warley.—Leave her not, I charge you;—stir not from her;—by our friendship, Molesworth, stir not from her 'till you see
DARCEY.
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to RICHARD RISBY, Esq;
Dover.
Oh Dick! the most dreadful affair has happen'd!—Lord Darcey is distracted and dying; I am little better—Good God! what shall I do?—what can I do?—He lies on the floor in the next room, with half his hair torn off.—Unhappy man! fatigue had near kill'd him, before the melancholy account reach'd his ears.—Miss Warley, I mean Miss Powis, is gone to the bottom.—She sunk in the yacht that sailed yesterday from Dover for Calais.—Every soul is lost.—The fatal accident was confirm'd by a boat which came in not ten minutes before we arriv'd.—There was no keeping it from Lord Darcey.—The woman of the Inn we are at has a son lost in the same vessel: she was in fits when we alighted.—Some of the wreck is drove on shore.—What can equal this scene!—Oh, Miss Powis! most amiable of women, I tremble for your relations!—But Darcey, poor Darcey, what do I feel for you!—He speaks:—he calls for me:—I go to him.
Oh, Risby! my heart is breaking; for once let it be said a man's heart can break.—Whilst he rav'd, whilst his sorrows were loud, there was some chance; but now all is over. He is absolutely dying;—death is in every feature.—His convulsions how dreadful!—how dreadful the pale horror of his countenance!—But then so calm,—so compos'd!—I repeat, there can, be no chance.—
Where is Molesworth? I heard him say as I enter'd his apartment: come to me, my friend,—holding out his hand—come to me, my friend.—Don't weep—don't let me leave you in tears.—If you wish me well, rejoice:—think how I should have dragg'd out a miserable number of days, after—oh, George! after—Here he stopp'd.—The surgeon desir'd he would suffer us to lift him on the bed.—No, he said, in a faultering accent, if I move I shall die before I have made known to my friend my last request.—Upon which the physician and surgeon retir'd to a distant part of the room, to give him an opportunity of speaking with greater freedom.
He caught hold of my hand with the grasp of anguish, saying, Go, go. I entreat you, by that steady regard which has subsisted between us,—goto the unhappy family:—if they can be comforted; ay, if theycan, you must undertake the task.—Iwill die without you.—Tell them I send the thanks, the duty, of a dying man;—that they must consider me as their own. A few, averyfew hours! and I shall be their own;—I shall be united to their angel daughter.—Dear soul, he cried, is it for this,—for this, I tore myself from you!—But stop, I will not repine; the reward of my sufferings is at hand.
Now, you may lift me on the bed;—now, my friend, pointing to the door,—now, my dear Molesworth, if you wish I should die in—there fainted.—He lay without signs of life so long, that I thought, all was over.—
I cannot comply with his last request;—it is his last I am convinc'd;—he will never speak more, Risby!—he will nevermorepronounce the name of Molesworth.
Be yours the task he assign'd me.—Go instantly to the friends you revere;—go to Mr. and Mrs. Powis, the poor unfortunate parents.—Abroad they were to you as tender relations;—in England, your first returns of gratitude will be mournful.—You have seen Miss Powis:—it could be no other than that lovely creature whom you met so accidentally at ——: the likeness she bore to her father startled you. She was then going with Mr. Jenkings into Oxfordshire:—you admired her;—but had you known her mind, how would you have felt for Darcey!
Be cautious, tender, and circumspect, in your sad undertaking.—Go first to the old steward's, about a mile from the Abbey; if he is not return'd, break it to his wife and son.—They will advise, they will assist you, in the dreadful affair;—I hope the poor old gentleman has not proceeded farther than London.—Write the moment you have seen the family; write every melancholy particular: my mind is only fit for such gloomy recitals.—Farewel! I go to my dying friend.
Yours,
MOLESWORTH.
Captain RISBY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH,
Barford Abbey.
What is the sight of thousands slain in the field of battle, compar'd with the scene I am just escap'd from!—How can I be circumstantial!—where am I to begin!—whose distress shall I paint first!—can there be precedence in sorrow!
What a weight will human nature support before it sinks!—The distress'd inhabitants of this house are still alive; it is proclaim'd from every room by dreadful groans.—You sent me on a raven's message:—like that ill-boding bird I flew from house to house, afraid to croak my direful tidings.
By your directions I went to the steward's;—at the gate stood my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Powis, arm in arm.—I thought I should have sunk;—I thought I should have died instantly.—I was turning my horse to go back, and leave my black errand to be executed by another.
They were instantly at my side;—a hand was seiz'd by each,—and the words Risby!—captain Risby!—ecchoed in my ears.—What with their joyous welcomes,—and transported countenances, I felt as if a flash of lightning had just darted on my head.—Mrs. Powis first perceiv'd the alteration and ask'd if I was well;—if any thing had happen'd to give me concern?
Certainly there has, said Mr. Powis, oryouare not the same man youwas, Risby.—It is true, Sir, return'd I;—it is true, I am notsohappy as when I last sawyou;—my mind is disagreeably situated;—could I receive joy, it would be in knowing this amiable woman to be Mrs. Powis.
You both surprise and affect us, replied he.
Indeed you do, join'd in his Lady; but we will try to remove your uneasiness:—pray let us conduct you to the Abbey; you are come to the best house in the world to heal grievances.—Ah, Risby! said my friend, all there is happiness.—Dick, I have the sweetest daughter: but Lord Darcey, I suppose, has told you every thing; we desir'd he would; and that we might see you immediately.—Canyoutell us if his Lordship is gone on to Dover?
He is, returned I.—I did not wait his coming down, wanting to discover to you the reason of my perplexities.
What excuse after saying this, could I make, for going into the steward's?—For my soul, I could not think of any.—Fortunately it enter'd my head to say, that I had been wrong directed;—that a foolish boy had told me this was the strait road to the Abbey.
Mr. and Mrs. Powis importun'd me to let the servant lead my horse, that I might walk home with them.—Thiswould never do.—I could not longer trust myself intheircompany, 'till I had reconnoitred the family;—'till I had examin'd whotherewas best fitted to bear the first onset of sorrow.—I brought myself off by saying, one of my legs was hurt with a tight boot.
Well then, go on, Risby, said Mr. Powis: you see the Abbey just before you; my wife and I will walk fast;—we shall be but a few minutes behind.
My faculties were quite unhing'd, the sight of the noble structure.—I stopp'd, paus'd, then rode on; stopp'd again, irresolute whether to proceed.—Recollecting your strict injunctions, I reach'd the gate which leads to the back entrance; there I saw a well-looking gentleman and the game-keeper just got off their horses:—the former, after paying me the compliment of his hat, took a brace of hares from the keeper, and went into the house.—I ask'd of a servant who stood by, if that was Sir James Powis?
No, Sir, he replied; but Sir James is within.
Who is that gentleman? return'd I.
His name is Morgan, Sir,
Very intimate here, I suppose—is he not?
Yes, very intimate, Sir.
Thenheis the person I have business with; pray tell himso.
The servant obey'd.—Mr. Morgan came to me, before I had dismounted; and accosting me very genteely, ask'd what my commands were with him?
Be so obliging, Sir, I replied; to go a small distance from the house; and I will unfold an affair which I am sorry to be the messenger of.
Nothing is amiss, Sir, I hope: you look strangely terrified; but I'll go with you this instant.—On that he led me by a little path to a walk planted thick with elms; at one end of which was a bench, where we seated ourselves.—Now, Sir, said Mr. Morgan, you mayheredeliver what you have to say with secrecy.—I don't recollect to have had the honour of seeingyoubefore;—but I wait with impatience to be inform'd the occasion of this visit.
You are a friend, I presume, of Sir James Powis?
Yes, Sir, I am: he hasfewof longer standing, and, as times go,moresincere, I believe.—But what of that?—do you know any harm, Sir, of me, or of my friend?
God knows I do not;—but I am acquainted, Mr. Morgan, with an unfortunate circumstance relative to Sir James.
Sir James! Zounds, do speak out:—Sir James, to my knowledge, does not owe a shilling.
It is not money matters, Sir, that brought me here:—heaven grant it was!
The devil, Sir!—tell me at once, what is this damn'd affair? Upon my soul, you must tell me immediately.
Behold!—read, Sir—what a task is mine! (putting your letter into his hands.)
Never was grief, surprize, and disappointment so strongly painted as in him.—At first, he stood quite silent; every feature distorted:—then starting back some paces, threw his hat over the hedge:—stamp'd on his wig;—and was stripping himself naked, to fling his clothes into a pond just by, when I prevented him.
Stop, Sir, I cried: do not alarm the family before they are prepar'd.—Think of the dreadful consequences;—think of the unhappy parents!—Let us consult how to break it to them, without severing their hearts at one blow.
Zounds, Sir, don't talk to me of breaking it; I shall go mad:—you did not know her.—Oh! she was the most lovely, gentle creature!—What an old blockhead have I been!—Why did I not give her my fortune?—thenDarcey would have married her;—thenshe would not have gone abroad;—thenwe should have sav'd her. Oh, she was a sweet, dear soul!—What good will my curst estates do menow?—You shall have them, Sir;—any body shall have them—I don't care what becomes ofme.—Do order my horse, Sir—I say again, do order my horse. I'll never see this place more.—Oh! my dear, sweet, smiling girl, why would you go to France?
Here I interrupted him.
Think not, talk not, Sir, of leaving the family in such a melancholy situation.—Pray recollect yourself.—Yououghtnot to run from your friends;—yououghtto redouble your affection at this hour of trial.—Whocanbe call'd friends, but those who press forward, when all the satisfactions of life draw back.—You are not;—your feeling heart tells me you are not one of the many that retire with such visionary enjoyments.—Come, Sir, for the present forget the part you bear in this disaster:—consider,—pray, consider her poor parents; consider what will be their sufferings:—let it be our task to prepare them.
What you say is very right, Sir, return'd he.—I believe you are a good christian;—God direct us,—God direct us.—I wish I had a dram:—faith, I shall be choak'd.—Sweet creature!—what will become of Lord Darcey!—I never wanted a dram so much before.—Your name, Sir, if you please.—I perceive we shall make matters worse by staying out so long.
I told him my name; and that I had the honour of being intimately acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Powis.
He continued,—You will go inwith me, Sir.—How am I to act!—I'll follow your advice—We must expect it will be a dreadful piece of work.—
Caution and tenderness, Mr. Morgan, will be absolutely necessary.
But where is my hat?—where is my wig?—have I thrown them into the pond?
It is well the poor distress'd man recollected he had them not; or, bare-headed as he was, I should have gone with him to the house.—I pick'd them up, all over dirt; and, well as I could, clean'd them with my handkerchief.
Now, Sir, said I, if you will wipe your face,—for the sweat was standing on it in large drops,—I am ready to attend you.
So I mustreallygo in, captain.—I don't think I can stand it;—you had better go without me.—Upon my soul, I had sooner face the mouth of a cannon—If you would blow my brains out, it would be the kindest thing you ever did in your life.
Poh! don't talk at this rate, Sir.—Do we live only for ourselves?—
Butwillyou not leave us, captain;—willyou not run from us, when all is out?
Rather, Sir, suspect me of cowardice.—I should receive greater satisfaction from administering the smallest consolation to people in distress, than from whole nations govern'd by my nod.
Well, captain, Iwillgo;—Iwilldo any thing you desire me, since you are so good to say you will not leave us.
But, notwithstanding his fair promise, I never expected to get him within the doors.—He was shifting from side to side:—sometimes he would stand still,—sometimes attempt to retreat.—When we were just at the house, a servant appear'd:—of whom he enquir'd, if Mr. and Mrs. Powis were return'd; and was inform'd the latter was within;—the former gone out in pursuit of us. We likewise found the Ladies were with Sir James in the library. I sent in my name: it was in vain for me to expect any introduction from my companion.
Mrs. Powis flew to meet me at the door:—Mr. Morgan lifted up his eyes, and shook his head.—I never was so put to it:—I knew not what to say; or how to look.—Welcome, Mr. Risby, said the amiable, unfortunate, unsuspecting mother;—doubly welcome at this happy juncture.—Let me lead you to parents, introducing me to Sir James and Lady Powis, from whom I have receiv'd all my felicity.
You need not be told my reception:—it is sufficient that you know Sir James and her Ladyship.—My eyes instantly turn'd on the venerable chaplin: I thought I never discover'd so much of the angel in a human form.
Mrs. Powis ask'd me a thousand questions;—except answeringthem, I sat stupidly silent.—It was not so with Mr. Morgan: he walk'd, or rather ran up and down;—his eyes fix'd on the floor,—his lips in motion.—The Ladies spoke to him: he did not answer; and I could perceive them look on each other with surprize.
Mr. Powis enter'd:—the room seem'd to lift up:—I quite rambled when I rose to receive his salute.—Mr. Morgan was giving me the slip.—I look'd at him significantly,—then at Mr. Watson,—as much as to say, Take him out; acquaint him with the sorrowful tidings.—He understood the hint, and immediately they withdrew together.
Come, dear Risby, pluck up, said Mr. Powis:—do not you, my friend, be the only low-spirited person amongst us.—I fear Mr. Risby is not well, return'd Lady Powis.—We must not expect to see every one in high spirits, becauseweare:—ourblessings must be consider'd asverysingular.—You have not mention'd Fanny to your friends.
Indeed, Madam, I have, replied he.—Risby knows, I every minute expect my belov'd daughter.—But tell me, Dick;—tell me, my friend;—all present are myself;—fear not to be candid;—what accident has thrown a cloud of sadness over your once chearful countenance?—Can I assist you?—My advice, my interest, my purse are all your own.—Nay, dear Risby, you must not turn from me.—I did turn, I could hold it no longer.—
Pray Sir, said Mrs. Powis, do speak;—do command us; and she condescended to lay her hand on mine—Lady Powis, Sir James too, both intreated I would suffer them to make me happy.—Dear worthy creatures, how my heart bled! how it still bleeds for them!—
I was attempting some awkward acknowledgment, when Mr. Watson enter'd, led by Mr. Morgan.—I saw he had executed the task, which made me shudder.—Never did the likeness of a being celestial shine more than in the former! He mov'd gently forward,—plac'd himself next Lady Powis;—pale,—trembling,—sinking.—Mr. Morgan retir'd to the window.—
Now,—now,—the dreadful discovery was at a crisis.—Mr. Watson sigh'd.—Lady Powis eyed him with attention; then starting up, cried, Bless me! I hear wheels: suppose, Mr. Watson, it should be Fanny!—and after looking into the lawn resum'd her chair.
Pardon me, Lady Powis said. Mr. Watson in a low-voice; whythisimpatience?—Ah Madam! I could rather wish you to check than encourageit.
Hold, hold, my worthy friend, return'd Sir James; do you forget four hours since how you stood listening at a gate by the road-side, saying, you could hear, tho' not see?
We must vary our hopes and inclinations, reply'd Mr. Watson.—Divine Providence—there stopp'd;—not another word.—He stopp'd;—he groan'd;—and was silent.—Great God! cried Mr. Powis, is my child ill?—Is my child dead? frantickly echoed Mrs. Powis—Heaven forbid! exclaim'd Sir James and his Lady, arising.—Tell us, Mr. Watson;—tell us, Mr. Ruby.
When you are compos'd,—return'd the former—Then, our child is dead,—really dead! shriek'd the parents.—No, no, cried Lady Powis, clasping her son and daughter in her arms,—she is, not dead; I am sure she is not dead.
Mr. Watson, after many efforts to speak, said in a faultering voice,—Consider we are christians:—let that bless'd name fortify our souls.
Mrs. Powis fell on her knees before him,—heart-rending sight!—her cap torn off,—her hair dishevell'd,—her eyes fix'd;—not a tear,—not a single tear to relieve the bitter anguish of her soul.
Sir James had left the room;—Lady Powis was sunk almost senseless on the sopha;—Mr. Powis kneeling by his wife, clasping her to his bosom;—Mr. Morgan in a corner roaring out his affliction;—Mr. Watson with the voice of an angel speaking consolation.—I say nothing of my own feelings.—God, how great!—how inexpressible! when Mrs. Powis, still on her knees, turn'd to me with uplifted hands,—Oh Mr. Risby! cried she,—canyou,—canyouspeak comfort to the miserable?—Then again addressing Mr. Watson,—Dear, saint, only say she lives:—I ask no more; only say she lives.—My best love!—my life!—my Fanny! said Mr. Powis, lifting her to the sopha;—live,—live,—for my sake.—Oh!—Risby, areyouthe messenger?—his head fell on my shoulder, and he sobb'd aloud.
Lady Powis beckon'd him towards her, and, looking at Mrs. Powis with an expressive glance of tenderness,—said Compose yourself, my son;—what will become ofyou, if—He took the meaning of her words, and wrapping his arms about his wife, seem'd for a moment to forget his own sorrow in endeavours to.
What an exalted woman is Lady Powis!
My children, said she; taking a hand from each,—I am thankful: whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.—Let us follow his great example of patience,—of resignation.—What is a poor span?—Ourswill be eternity.
I whisper'd Mr. Morgan, a female friend would be necessary to attend the Ladies;—one whom they lov'd,—whom they confided in, to be constantly with them in their apartments.—He knew just such a woman, he said; and went himself to fetch Mrs. Jenkings.—Lady Powis being unable longer to support herself, propos'd withdrawing.—I offered my arm, which she accepted, and led her to the dressing-room.—Mrs. Powis follow'd; almost lifeless, leaning on her husband: there I left them together, and walk'd out for a quarter of an hour to recover my confus'd senses.
At my return to the library, I found Sir James and Mr. Watson in conversation.—The former, with a countenance of horror and distraction,—Oh Sir! said he, as I came near him,—do I see you again?—are you kind enough not to run from our distress?
Run from it, Sir James! I reply'd;—no, I will stay and be a partaker.
Oh Sir! he continued, you know notmydistress:—death only can relieveme—I am withouthope, withoutcomfort.
And is this, Sir James, what you are arriv'd at? said the good chaplain—Is this what you have been travelling sixty years after?—Wish for death yet say you have neither hope or comfort.—Your good Lady, Sir, is full of both;—sherejoices in affliction:—shehas long look'd above this world.
So might I, he reply'd,—had I no more to charge myself with than she has.—Youknow, Mr. Watson,—youknow how faulty I have been.
Your errors, dear Sir James, said he, are not remember'd.—Look back on the reception you gave your son and daughter.
He made no reply; but shedding a flood of tears, went to his afflicted family.
Mr. Watson, it seems, whilst I had been out, acquainted him with the contents of your letter;—judging it the most seasonable time, as their grief could not then admit of increase.
Sir James was scarce withdrawn, when Lady Powis sent her woman to request the sight of it.—As I rose to give it into her hand, I saw Mr. Morgan pass by the door, conducting an elderly woman, whom I knew afterward to be Mrs. Jenkings.—She had a handkerchief to her eyes, one hand lifted up;—and I heard her say, Good God! Sir, what shall I do?—how can I see the dear Ladies?—Oh Miss Powis!—the amiable Miss Powis!
Mr. Morgan join'd us immediately, with whom and Mr. Watson I spent the remainder of this melancholy evening: at twelve we retir'd.
So here I sit, like one just return'd from the funeral of his best friend;—alone, brooding over every misery I can call together.—The light of the moon, which shines with uncommon splendor, casts not one ray on my dark reflections:—nor do the objects which present themselves from the windows offer one pleasing idea;—rather an aggravation to my heart-felt anguish.—Miserable family!—miserable those who are interested in its sad disaster!—
I go to my bed, but not to my repose.